


The Birch Bark Coil

by Rosalindfan



Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Backstory, Canon Relationships, Pre-Canon, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:03:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosalindfan/pseuds/Rosalindfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosalind's age is problematical in canon. This offers a possible solution to how she met and married so young.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Childhood

**October 1910**

“Charles, we shouldn’t be here.”

Rosalind’s voice sounds small against the noise of the wind in the poplar trees that line the East Garden. She wraps the shawl, borrowed from the dressing up box in the Day Nursery, around her thin shoulders and lifts her head to see where her brother has gone. He is seven years older than her and often does things that Mother would be angry about. Father doesn’t seem to mind – ‘Boys will be boys’ he says when Mother complains. At fifteen, Charles is nearly a man and he so rarely includes her in his escapades nowadays that she is pathetically grateful when he does, and she hates herself for it. But Charles always has the bravest plans, the most daring adventures. It is he who tells the funniest stories, and best of all, encourages her to be herself.

“Charles, where are you?” she shouts into the darkness.

Her feet are soaking from the long grass. It is no longer raining, but the darkened sky is crossed by even darker clouds promising more downpours to come. The moon struggles to find a space to send down its beams - when it does, black shadows appear fleetingly on the ground mirroring the tall trees. Is Charles hiding behind a broad trunk waiting to jump out at her, hoping to make her scream? Rosalind clamps her lips together and leans into the wind. She would like to stride forward confidently as Father or William would do but her skirt twists around her legs and hobbles her. She fights the billowing fabric, threading her way through the trees. There is no sign of Charles, but a small light flickers off to her left – the summerhouse.

Wisps of dark hair sting her face as she turns and makes her way towards the ornate wooden pavilion. She approaches cautiously. Charles will have laid a trap - a string to trip her, a fresh cowpat gathered earlier from the water-meadow, a hole disguised with carefully arranged foliage. It is his aim, when they play these games, to make her cry out, or startle or run away. An eerie voice comes from the summerhouse.

“Rosy!” The sound echoes as from a megaphone. “Beware Rosy, the witching hour draws near.”

Rosalind’s heart hammers in her chest but she continues her hesitant approach. She knows how late it is, it may well be nearly midnight. She clenches her fists and takes another step.

“There are no such things as witches, Charles,” she shouts. “You won’t frighten me that way.”

She has seen the illustrations in the fairy tale books – old women with black hats and cats with arched backs; ugly women with warts and hooked noses and hob-nailed boots. In Father’s library she has seen other witches, ordinary women in everyday clothes tied to posts and burned, strapped into chairs and drowned. There may have been witches once, she decides, but no longer.

A dark shape appears over the summerhouse and swoops towards her. It has the form of a person and it sits on a besom, a broomstick. She clamps her hand to her mouth and jumps back from its path. The moonlight catches the wire that stretches from the top of the summerhouse to the ground and she understands. The hat is not pointed but is a rounded shape – the old bowler hat that she begged from the gardener, Richards, for the guy. The legs that straddle the broom are trousered not in skirts. This is their Guy Fawkes, completed yesterday and adapted to scare an eight-year old girl. But Rosalind Howard is made of sterner stuff; she laughs out loud.

“What’s a-going on here, then?” a deep, rough voice asks from the gloom and Rosalind nearly wets her knickers in terror.

Charles’ figure appears in the doorway of the summerhouse. He leaps down the three steps in one bound and grabs Rosalind’s hand.

“Run!” he hisses and they dash across the unmown grass and through the trees. He pulls her through the gap in the hedge and across the smooth turf of the South Garden. Here the trees are widely placed, shady spots in summer, and they negotiate a path easily; another hedge and their feet are on gravel. Just as Rosalind is sure that she cannot take another breath, Charles stops.

“Quietly,” he says softly. “Father may still be in his study.”

“I thought he’d found us,” she pants. “It was Richards, wasn’t it? What was he doing out there? Will he tell Father?”

“He doesn’t know it was us, Rosy,” Charles shrugs. “What can he say?”

Rosalind considers this. She can dry her skirt in the Night Nursery, stuff newspaper in her wet shoes. No-one will know she has been out on this wild night, this All Hallows’ Eve, her eighth birthday.

“I didn’t scream,” she says as they let themselves in through the kitchen door.

“No,” says Charles, his grin wide in the light of the single candle they left burning, “No, you didn’t.”

Rosalind’s chest swells with pride and she grins back at him. She is as brave as any boy; she can hide her fear and smile in the face of danger.

 

**Two years earlier**

 

The door of the Night Nursery creaks open and Rosalind is awake instantly. She lies motionless, keeps her breath in her lungs and her ears alert. The bed dips with someone’s weight and she is immediately upright.

“Aren’t you asleep yet, Rosy?” William begins. “Are you afraid to sleep?” The candle he carries glimmers on his chin, giving him an eerie appearance.

“Are you afraid of the witches?” Charles takes up the taunt. “Afraid of the ghosts?”

Rosalind looks at them. “Ghosts are only in stories,” she says firmly.

“Oh no, they are real,” William intones, “and tonight is the night they roam.”

Her curiosity is piqued. “Why?” she asks. “Why tonight? Because it is my birthday?”

“Because tonight is All Hallows’ Eve – did you not know?” William’s voice sneers at her ignorance.

They tell her how the day of her birth is dedicated to the dead; a chance for the unsaintly, soulless forms to walk and witches to ride the skies on their broomsticks. She sleeps that night buried deep under the covers and dreams of cats tangled in her hair.

“Mother, I need the big encyclopaedia and it is too high,” Rosalind says as they sit at breakfast.

“You and your books!” Mother says. “What are you studying now?”

Rosalind hesitates. The true subject of her study may not be approved. “Today is a new month, I must discover something about it,” she says, as if this is a task set by her tutor.

Mother reaches the book down and leaves Rosalind to her discoveries.

 

Rosalind has no awareness of the fact that she is far better educated than most of her contemporaries. Being his only daughter, Father has decided that a governess is not necessary and she, at four years old, joins her brothers with Mr Vyse, their tutor. It is fortunate that this young man is more forward-thinking than most and takes pains to make sure that she is as challenged as his two older students. With a curiosity that encompasses all subjects and a fierce competitiveness, especially with Charles, she quickly learns to read and eagerly devours every book in the schoolroom. It is not long before she discovers the delights of the library; that is when Mother decides that she may only go in there when supervised.

On the evening of her seventh birthday Rosalind is armed with knowledge. When she hears noises outside the door she throws it open, startling her brothers.

“Have you come to celebrate with me?” she asks in her best imitation of Mother’s hostess voice. “Please, come inside.”

The boys exchange glances, unsure of what to expect. Their planned tales of seeing undead roaming the grounds lose their excitement as their sister sweeps a cover off the cupboard-top. Laid out on a pristine white cloth is an arrangement of candles around a crucifix, and a plate of biscuits baked in the shape of crosses.

“Shall we perform the blessing?” she asks and hands the taper to sixteen-year old William. He dutifully lights it from the fire and returns it.

 

“Bless this house and all inside its walls,” Rosalind chants as the boys sit on her bed. “Protect us from the passing spirits. Send them on their way without harm.”

She has no idea whether there is a specific prayer for this occasion but neither will the boys. She ceremonially lights the candles.

“May the consumption of these soul cakes keep us from harm, for ever and ever, Amen,” she concludes and stifles her laughter as the boys both parrot her affirmation. She solemnly offers the biscuits to each in turn. Cook has assured her that they will be edible but not pleasant and she swallows hers without a word. William takes a bite and gags.

“Are you trying to poison us?” he coughs and she smiles serenely.

Charles is more perceptive. “Well done, Rosy,” he says through a dry mouth, “but I’ll get you next year. I’ll make you scream.”

Rosalind determines that such a thing will never happen. And despite a year of being inveigled into situations designed to scare her and being taken on adventures as frightening as he can contrive he has yet to succeed.

 

Mr Vyse is replaced by Mr Goodson who is a less liberal man and relegates Rosalind to a corner of the schoolroom with tasks that bore her. Consequently she spends more and more time in the library in an effort to understand the world. Father’s newspapers raise more questions than they answer and there are some things on which she can find no information at all. A lectern in the corner of the library holds the Family Bible, a large leather-bound volume with a metal clasp and hand-tooled cover. By the age of ten she can heave this tome onto a table, and in the midst of the close-printed pages and occasional tissue-covered illustration she discovers a more personal story.

Several pages, lined like a schoolbook, are covered in tiny writing in faded ink. The most recent page to be filled is in Mother’s handwriting and details her marriage to Father followed by William and Charles’ births. Expecting herself to be next, Rosalind is confused by three unknown names, their dates of birth followed closely, and in one case identical to, the dates of death. Three children, who have been born and died between Charles and herself; her mind assimilates the information and she recognises that here is another subject of which she knows little – the facts that lead to the births of children.

 

**1914**

The war comes and their lives are turned upside down. Father, now in his early forties and still fit and healthy served in the Navy during the Second Boer War and has held a position in the admiralty ever since. Charles follows him into this service, but William joins the Army, eager to prove himself in a different sphere.

Charles has been gone a week, his basic training completed, and William, three months. Rosalind sits in a dim fire-lit drawing room on a rainy January afternoon when the doorbell rings. She hears Father murmuring in the hallway, indistinct conversation. Mother enters the room.

“Do we have a visitor?” Rosalind asks and Mother sits by her side and takes her hand.

“It is a telegram,” Mother says and Rosalind’s hear beats faster. She looks at Mother’s face but her expression reveals nothing.

“William will not be coming home,” she says as her hand grasps Rosalind’s painfully and Rosalind understands the words that Mother is unable to speak.

Her chin trembles and tears escape her closed eyes. “When will the funeral be?” she asks and Mother loses her hand.

“He will be interred in France,” she replies. There will be a short ceremony here but…”

Rosalind wonders at Mother’s poise in the face of such news. She barely registers that Mother is speaking about strength and resilience and bravery.

When she finds the blood the following evening she thinks it must be the shock of hearing the news that makes it happen. But it continues and she wonders if it is some kind of rupture from the way she sobbed most of the night.

“Mother, something is wrong. I must see Doctor Warren,” she says as Mother sits at breakfast, uneaten food congealing on her plate.

“Then ask Ford to call him,” Mother says.

Rosalind watches Mother’s eyes drift to the window and waits for her to ask about the need. But Mother is elsewhere, her awareness of Rosalind already gone.

So it is that Rosalind learns some basic facts of life from an elderly bachelor who speaks of readiness for children then refers her back to Mother. But it is to Mother’s maid, Ethel, that she turns; it is she who teaches Rosalind how to manage the situation and provides her with the necessary items. Ethel must tell Mother too, as every month a brown-paper wrapped parcel is left on her bed. It is never discussed, but her lessons with Mr Goodson cease and a governess is employed.


	2. Meeting

**1915**

The poplars cast short, stark noonday shadows over the East Lawn as Rosalind sits in the dappled shade of a silver birch and tries to capture the colours of its bark on paper. Miss Eld, her governess, is an accomplished artist and Rosalind, in Charles’ absence, has risen to the challenge of capturing images on paper rather than the challenge of besting him.

Today Rosalind is dressed to pose for her governess in a white muslin dress but Miss Eld has a headache brought on by too much sun, so Rosalind must occupy herself. Her dark hair is tied up with ribbons and she has acquired a rosiness on her skin to match her name. Except that without William and Charles no-one calls her Rosy anymore – she is thirteen, a young lady and always addressed as Rosalind.

She tilts her head to study the patch of bark, marvelling at how many colours, shapes and textures fit into such a small space – green-grey triangles, pale brown dashes and dots like Morse Code wrapped around the trunk, a vivid orange irregular patch, its matching shape coiled at the base of the tree; raised gnarly lichen, a myriad of tiny knots in muddy green, forms an island on the pale bark. She sighs as she considers how to show the tiny peeling strips, curled bird’s wings in miniature. A distant voice intrudes on her concentration.

“Rosy!”

Rosalind looks up, her dark eyes wary. She often hears him call her name, especially at night when the wind shrieks through the poplars. But today her eyes must play tricks as well as her ears for Charles is striding across the lawn toward her. Mother waves from the French windows and a figure in uniform stands motionless on the terrace.

“It is Charles,” she whispers to the tree as she stands, one hand on its steadying trunk.

“Rosy!”

She hitches up her white muslin and begins to run when Miss Eld's face appears at a first floor window. Rosalind stops, smooths the dress and puts her hand to her hair. Charles is close now, his arms wide to hitch under her armpits and swing her round as always. Ignoring Miss Eld’s glare she darts into his embrace and puts her arms around his neck; her feet leave the ground as she whirls through space.

“Thank goodness,” says Charles as he puts her down, “I thought you’d grown up while I was away.”

He holds her at arm’s length and over his shoulder she sees Mother and the uniformed man step down from the terrace onto the lawn. Miss Eld’s face at the window matches the stone mullions.

“Perhaps you have, Rosy; you look like a proper young lady,” Charles whispers.

“I’m so glad you’re home, Charles,” Rosalind replies. “Safe.”

She smiles at him, and the uniformed young man stops, leaving Mother to walk on alone. He gazes at her and Charles turns and beckons him forward.

“Come and meet my little sister,” he says as the young man approaches. “Corporal Foyle, may I present my sister Rosy…”

He halts at the expression on his sister’s face. “Rosalind,” he corrects himself.

“Rosalind, this is Corporal Christopher Foyle,” he continues, “of Hastings, latterly France and most recently the train from which we were both ejected due to mechanical failure. We were so near, we walked the last couple of miles.”

Corporal Foyle holds out a hand, long-fingered and calloused. “My pleasure, Miss Howard,” he says slowly. “Your brother was kind enough to offer me a … ”

He blushes under his short dark curls and Rosalind hurries to alleviate his discomfort.

“A hot meal?” she provides, “a cup of tea, a place to stay?”

Corporal Foyle nods and looks at her gratefully. “Yes,” he says. His slow blink and brief smile are in perfect synchronicity. “A meal before the next train is due.”

 

Mother has a ladies’ lunch-meeting of some kind in town so Rosalind plays hostess to a buffet served in the dining room, the French doors open wide to catch the breeze. Charles and Corporal Foyle talk of battles and people whose names she does not recognise, so she takes the opportunity to study their visitor from under her dark lashes. His curls are cut short but look soft and springy and she wonders how they would feel under her fingers. The eyes that studied her so solemnly at their introduction are pale, grey-blue like the colour of a winter sky and have an expression that reminds her of the Vermeer that hangs on the staircase. He is not as tall as Charles but his shoulders are broad and he stands confidently even though she knows that he is not at home in these surroundings. He is both watchful and relaxed and she finds the combination fascinating.

They sit in the garden after lunch and she shows the two young men her painting.

“You have an eye for detail,” Corporal Foyle says, “the way the lichen spreads, the uneven diameter of the trunk.”

“Do you see how it bulges where the lichen grows?” she asks. “I ask myself whether the tree grows wider because of it, or it chooses that spot to thrive for some reason.”

He examines her face until a sudden sound in the distance startles him and he looks back at the paper.

“Come and see,” she says and grabs his hand to pull him from the canvas chair.

“Rosy!” Charles stirs from his sun-baked lethargy and at his tone of disapproval she drops Corporal Foyle’s hand.

“It’s no trouble,” he says and follows her to observe the tree. They walk around the silver birch, far enough away from Charles to not be heard.

“Is it truly awful, France?” Rosalind asks as her fingers trace the dots and dashes.

“Yes,” he replies and she waits but he does not elucidate.

“And you must go back?” Her heart loses its rhythm as she imagines him trudging through the mud and the gore that she knows exist despite Mother’s censorship of her reading. He nods.

“How do you do it?” she asks. “How do you face it?”

“As best you can,” he murmurs, “hoping it must mean something.”

He looks at the birch, runs his fingers along the peeling bark and she shivers as she imagines them running across her skin. She puts her hand on the tree and his comes to rest with one finger touching her wrist.

“A symbol of love and fertility, the silver birch,” he says and her skin burns where it touches his.

“I must leave soon,” he continues. “Your watercolour, of the birch; may I -?”

“I haven’t finished it,” she says. “There are little curls of peeling bark that I can’t quite grasp.”

She studies his curls, short but wilfully unruly. “Unless -”

She pulls a pencil from the folds of her dress and makes a few marks on the paper – the bark coils from the page.

“There,” she says, “it’s yours. But you must return it so that I may do the others.”

He drops his gaze to the ground. “Miss Howard,” he begins but he does not finish.

Rosalind puts her palms on his cheeks and pulls his face down to hers. His eyes open wide then close as his lips meet hers.

Rosalind has never been kissed on the lips before and she tries to recall an instance of seeing rather than reading about it. Father’s quick peck on Mother’s hard pursed mouth bears no relation to the sensation of the corporal’s mouth moving on hers. She once took a forbidden shortcut through the Home Farm yard and came upon a couple standing against the wall. The man’s lips were on the woman’s but her impression was not of love but violence. She prepares herself for such a reaction but the warmth of his mouth leaves hers and he raises his arms, which had hung at his side, and puts his hands on her arms. His haunted expression makes her want to cry.

“Goodbye,” he says.

He leaves soon afterwards, shaking hands with Charles and giving her a mock salute. She laughs but she does not feel any pleasure; instead she feels an emptiness akin to that she felt at William’s death once the shock and grief had passed – a bittersweet emptiness of having known him but no longer able to see him.

She tells Charles of the strange expression.

“I can’t explain,” she says, “haunted, almost, with a hint of fear. What is he afraid of, Charles?”

“He returns to his battalion on Thursday,” Charles explains. “I shouldn’t be saying, but there’s talk of a big offensive coming up, one of the biggest so far – on the Somme River.”

That night Rosalind prays that the Somme Offensive will be short and Corporal Foyle will be safe.


	3. Waiting

The newspapers report little and what is reported is at odds with the information that Father acquires about the progress of the war. Rosalind listens as he speaks to Mother even though Mother takes little interest. Letters arrive from Charles as summer fades but there is no news of their brief visitor.

Mother is acting strangely and Rosalind is forced yet again to countermand her instructions to Cook. When fish is served in place of the anticipated Beef en Croute with oysters Mother doesn’t notice and eats it with fevered attention, her knife and fork moving constantly. She bites into the peach from the Glasshouse without removing the soft downy skin. The juice runs down her chin and Father stands and takes her elbow to lead her from the room.

He speaks to Rosalind later that evening in the library.

“I am wondering,” he says, “if your mother may not be better elsewhere. Somewhere where she can be looked after - watched.”

“Yes, Father,” she says.

What else can she say? Mother has become progressively distant since the news of William’s death and Rosalind has already taken on most of her duties.

“You are still very young,” Father continues. “Do you think you can run the house? Or shall I employ a housekeeper?”

Rosalind hesitates. The everyday running of the house is not difficult, and the restrictions of war have limited any larger social events.

“I can do it, Father,” she assures him.

Father smiles at her and ruffles her hair as he did when she was five. “When did you get so grown-up?” he asks. “Very well, my Rosalind, you are now the mistress of the house. If there are difficulties you may consult me, but otherwise it is in your capable hands.”

She looks at her hands and feels Corporal Foyle’s rough cheeks under her fingers, the slight stubble scratching her palms. Her abdomen cramps which is strange since the last time she was indisposed was just a week ago. She turns to look at the high bookshelves which were once forbidden to her and smiles.

 

Rosalind’s fourteenth birthday comes and goes and still the Battle of the Somme rages. She wonders where Corporal Foyle may be. Ethel brushes her hair as Rosalind sits impatiently at her dressing table.

“Sit still, Miss Rosalind,” Ethel implores, “and it’ll be done quicker.”

Rosalind looks at her reflection. The late autumn evening is chilly and a fire burns in her room, its light casting a glow on her pale skin. The rosiness of summer has faded, and her eyes seem darker in contrast. On her dressing table a coil of birch bark sits incongruously.

“Ethel,” she says and the young woman meets her eyes in the mirror, “Have you ever been in love?”

Ethel’s face softens. “Well, Miss” she whispers, “there is this young man, Thomas, from back home. We plan to get married, after the war,”

Ethel grins at her. “He asked me before he left.”

Rosalind’s breath catches in her throat. “Married,” she repeats but her courage dissipates as Ethel continues, talking of Thomas’ skill with iron and fire.

“Will you have children?” she asks quickly, cutting through Ethel’s descriptions of the blacksmith’s forge at home.

“I daresay they’ll come along in their own time,” Ethel says, putting down the brush. “All finished, Miss Rosalind, one hundred strokes, just like your mother always has.”

“Thank you,” Rosalind says and the moment has gone.

Rosalind coils the curling bark around her finger and splays her left hand, admiring it; then puts it carefully back in place and gets into bed. ‘They’ll come along in their own time,’ Ethel says. How will they know when it’s time? The doctor has said that she is now ready for children but none have come to her – does a child only come to a married woman? No - Minnie’s baby grew inside her while she worked in the kitchens, and she was not married. She was dismissed, which seems very unfair if a child had decided it was time to come along, whatever Minnie felt about it. Rosalind puzzles about this until sleep takes her. She dreams of babies and blood and guns and Corporal Foyle holding her under the silver birch.

 

Father brings Mother home for Christmas and as if by a miracle Charles arrives unexpectedly on Christmas Eve. Rosalind has taken Cook’s advice and ordered the same meals that have been served at Christmas for as many years as she can remember. It is just like all those other Christmases, except for William’s absence. Father refers to him by name when he says Grace and Mother begins to keen softly. They ignore the sound as long as they can and Rosalind tells Charles of her knitting.

“Balaclavas, socks and rifle gloves,” she says. “I used some of your old jumpers and William’s too.”

After dinner Charles finds her more outgrown woollen jumpers which she unravels, and he holds the metal colander while she winds the crinkled wool around it. He admires the neat heel turns in the socks as she steams the wool to straighten it, Cook’s large kettle perched in front of the fire.

“Nothing worse than a wrinkle in your sock,” he says and she hopes that whoever’s knitting has reached Corporal Foyle can turn a heel as well as her.

“William has plenty of socks,” Mother suddenly declares, “more than he needs. You can have them.”

Before anyone can stop her she runs upstairs and into William’s room. The mattress stands propped against the wall and the wardrobe door hangs open revealing dusty shelves and empty rails. Mother stands in the doorway silently.

There are no games that evening, no charades to make them all laugh, no loud card games or donkey on which to pin the tail. Father and Charles talk quietly, Rosalind knits rifle gloves and Mother goes to bed very early.

 

It is January when a letter arrives for her and Rosalind wonders, looking at the handwriting, what news Charles wishes to impart to her alone. She sits by the fire in the library and savours the letter. It hints at a set of extraordinary circumstances which have led her brother to again meet the man whose dark curls and haunted eyes still pepper her dreams. Her heart pounds.

_‘…but, my dear Rosy_ ,’ writes Charles, ‘ _I have to admit to some disappointment in you. Lieutenant Foyle told me what had happened when he expressed his regard for you. He apologised profusely for allowing such a thing to happen, although I sensed a certain pleasure within him that his attraction was reciprocated. In the light of this confession I was forced to reveal your age. The poor man was mortified, having taken your poise and appearance for someone of a more appropriate age for the action which you appear to have instigated. He is obviously a man of principle and assures me that his former attentions toward you will not be repeated.’_

Rosalind slumps in the chair and sighs at her own precipitous behaviour. Was that to be her only meeting with him? Is she to be denied the sight of his small frame striding over the lawn, the smile that he displayed so briefly directed at her?

 

As spring brings snowdrops and crocuses, so the postman brings more letters from Charles. He mentions his correspondence with Lieutenant Foyle often and Rosalind is cheered by the fact that their friendship may offer an opportunity for her. But as the days lengthen and the daffodils droop, so news comes that Lieutenant Foyle has been injured and is returned to the South Coast for treatment. At fourteen, Rosalind is unable to do what her heart tells her to - catch a train and discover his whereabouts. Instead she paces the grounds and hopes that he recovers whilst wishing at the same time that some minor disability keeps him in England. She develops the ears of a bat as she listens for the post and the stealth of a panther as she prowls outside Father’s study when she knows that a letter from Charles has arrived.

Eventually she receives another of her own. _‘…disproportionately downhearted. He has, however, accepted my invitation to join us on Tuesday when I shall have a whole week at home. I implore you, Rosy, to consider his feelings in any conversation you may have – he is not the same man, and I am at a loss to know what has made this change in him.’_


	4. Honesty

Mother has been deemed fit to return and orders tea served in the shade of the oak tree. They sit, the four of them, around a small metal table. There is fragrant tea, crust-less sandwiches and small iced cakes. Charles talks of the war as if it were already won while Captain Foyle sits silently, his eyes on the table. Mother, the perfect society hostess, asks about his family.

“Foyle,” she says, “I don’t recognise the name, Captain. Where are your people from?”

The grey- blue eyes take on a steely glint. “My _family_ is from Hastings,” he says and Rosalind looks up from her sandwich.

Mother persists. “And your father? Who is he?”

“He is a police sergeant,” Captain Foyle states clearly.

At Mother’s expression Charles snorts loudly into his teacup and Rosalind’s chest is full of bubbles of laughter. She quenches them with a mouthful of sponge cake.

“Captain Foyle is a temporary officer and gentleman,” Charles explains. “Mother, do close your mouth before you catch a fly.”

Captain Foyle’s eye catches her own and Rosalind sees a flicker of a smile, gone in a second. She smiles back, hers remaining until Charles speaks again. His humorous tone has disappeared.

“The Captain has risen through the ranks, Mother. Someone has to step up, so very many have been lost.”

He looks at Captain Foyle. “And life will be different after this; social distinctions will be blurred.”

Mother gathers her composure like strands of hair into a ribbon.

“So the war has been good to you, Captain?” she says.

There is silence. Captain Foyle studies the teapot and Charles colours, with embarrassment or anger, Rosalind cannot tell. The air is stifling; heavy enough to quash all conversation. Mother looks at them each in turn and her face creases in confusion.

Rosalind picks up her sketch book. “I love to sketch the gardens,” she says and sees a flicker of acknowledgement in his face.

Despite Charles’ warning, she is shocked at Captain Foyle’ demeanour and the lack of spark in his eyes. She risks her brother’s displeasure and attempts to rekindle the previous visit’s warmth.

"Do you know anything about the silver birch, Captain?” she asks and he looks at her as a thirsty man looks at water.

“Betula pendula,” he says unexpectedly, “gardeners use the twigs to make besoms to purify the ground.”

His eyes twinkle at her. “My grandfather was a gardener,” he says with a ring of pride and Rosalind wonders if Mother will faint.

 

Father is home for dinner but the atmosphere is strained. Charles looks pinched and speaks little; Mother tries to engage Father in fatuous conversation other than the war but Father questions Captain Foyle until Rosalind can stand it no longer. The captain answers politely and knowledgeably but Rosalind detects something in his expression, a tightening at the corners of his mouth. She searches for a distraction.

“What will you do after the war, Captain?” she asks.

“Well,” he hesitates. “Depends who wins, I suppose. And whether there is an ‘after’ for me.”

Rosalind sees his body stretched lifeless over barbed wire; lying trampled underfoot in a muddy trench; face up in a ditch, his open eyes reflecting only sky. She thinks of never seeing his eyes again; never feeling the heat of his touch; never being able to feel his curls under her fingers. Her chin trembles and her throat closes. Eyes stinging, she pushes back her chair and stands abruptly.

“Excuse me,” she says to no-one in particular and runs to her room.

 

It is very late when a soft tapping at the door rouses her from her doze. Charles enters and sits on the side of her bed.

“You all right, Rosy?” he asks.

She nods. “It’s all pretend, isn’t it, Charles?” she says. “It’s Mother thinking that being promoted is to one’s advantage and Father asking the questions that show the British in a good light. It’s all ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’ and ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ and Captain Foyle cuts through it all and says ‘if there is an after’.”

Her voice cracks and she fights for the composure Mother would expect.

“He’s an honest chap,” Charles says. “I took to him straight away. You like him a lot, don’t you, Rosy?”

Rosalind reflects on his words. Captain Foyle has neither said nor done anything untoward, yet she feels guilty about her thoughts of him.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“He’s worried about you,” Charles tells her. “He persuaded me to come and talk to you, to ask your forgiveness if his candid speech upset you.”

Rosalind sits up straighter. “Tell him that I appreciate his candour; that the world would be an easier place if everyone said what they mean.”

Charles grins and looks like her brother again.

“You may want to think about that a bit more, Rosy, but I know what you mean. I’ll put his mind at rest.”

Rosalind exhales the breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“Thank you,” she says.

 

The dining room is empty when Rosalind comes down for breakfast; the covered dishes suggest that everyone else has already eaten. She has no idea how long Captain Foyle will be staying and her heart flutters at the thought that he may already be gone. She bolts down her food and goes in search of anyone. She discovers that Mother and Father have gone into town, and Ford, the butler, tells her that ‘young Master Charles’ and the Captain are in the garden.

She hears them before she sees them, talking in the summerhouse. The chairs are out on the wildflower meadow that surrounds it, but they sit side by side on the wooden steps, heads down.

“…that the child is yours?” asks Charles.

“She was convinced. But her husband,” there is a long pause before Captain Foyle’s voice continues. “She broke off all contact - refused to see me again.”

Rosalind hears the compassion as Charles says, “Bad luck, old man. Did you love her very much?”

Again a pause. “At the time, yes. She was there when I needed someone – she was something clean and wholesome after the, the – “

He takes a breath and continues. “But now I am not sure. If only…”

The wretchedness of his voice is a physical miasma around the summerhouse. Rosalind shivers at the adultness of what she has heard. She is a child, a silly, selfish, covetous child whilst he is so far removed from her experience that he seems like a stranger. She turns blindly and trips on a chair. Their heads lift and they peer round the side of the building.

“Rosy! I was just telling Christopher about the Guy Fawkes witch,” Charles says and the sudden smile on Captain Foyle’s face makes her forgive Charles’ use of her childish nickname and the obvious deception he employs at her appearance.

“I didn’t scream, did I?” she swallows and forces a laugh. “You have yet to make me.”

“Oh, a challenge if I ever heard one,” Charles grins. “You see, Christopher, I told you.”

She looks at Captain Foyle. He is in full Khaki Drill uniform but his jacket hangs open and he has loosened his tie and undone the top of his shirt. He holds a glass of lemonade and takes a sip. She watches, fascinated as his Adam’s apple moves; her eyes lower to the hollow of his throat and her stomach contracts. She blushes. Captain Foyle smiles at her and she appreciates the truth of the formerly unbelievable weakness of the knees. She sits on the grass and hugs the offending joints. Captain Foyle’s eyes follow her every move. Charles watches them.

“Damn!” he says suddenly. “I promised Father I’d telephone about that problem with…”

His voice peters out as he realises that no one is listening. He stands and brushes down his jacket. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says and steps between them. Captain Foyle nods at him but doesn’t speak. Rosalind looks right through him. He leaves, cutting across the meadow to the house.

“Miss Howard, I must apologise for last evening,” Captain Foyle’s voice comes out low and staccato. “Didn’t mean to – “

Rosalind looks up at him. “You don’t need to apologise,” she says. “You were saying what you felt and I understand. There are thousands who have no ‘after’.”

She lowers her voice and dips her head. “I do so hope there will be one for you, Captain.”

“I hope so too, Miss Howard, if only to please you.”

He smiles at her again and a strange sensation pulls at her insides. She feels an urge to run her fingers across his shoulders, to smell his skin and… She blushes and concentrates on pulling at the grass stalks, not trusting her own resolve.

She has a sudden thought.“I could write to you, when you go back.”

A cloud passes over his face. “If you would like me to,” she finishes anxiously.

“I would like that very much, Miss Howard,” he says with no trace of the upturned lips, “but I don’t think it a good idea.”

Rosalind watches the sadness gather in his eyes and understands that he does this for her. The pain is double-edged.

“How long will you be here?” she asks.

He looks at his watch. “Another hour, then I shall catch the train home for all of one day before…”

An hour! Sixty short minutes; a mere three thousand, six hundred seconds – no time at all! Rosalind cannot bear the thought of him leaving. She takes a deep breath and her words emerge in a rush.

“What shall we do?” she asks brazenly. “How shall we spend that time?”

He raises his eyebrows at her and her stomach flips over. His lips turn downward but he shows no sign of sadness, but surprised pleasure. She reaches toward him and covers his hand with her own. He studies her hand and clears his throat.

“I, um, I, that is, Charles and I were going to –“

She raises her own eyebrows in what she hopes is an appealing manner.

“Charles?” she says, “Charles who is not here? Charles who is busy doing other things?”

She tosses her hair as she’s seen older women do, flicks it back over her shoulders.

“I have no idea what we can do,” he says quietly. “I don’t know the house or the garden - except here – and the silver birch, of course.”

“The symbol of love,” Rosalind breathes. “Then I shall show you the garden,” she says firmly. “Well, the best bits.”

He studies her face carefully and there is an adjustment in his manner, a shifting of reluctance to something else.

He laughs. “It’s a very large garden,” he says, “better get started.”

He comes down the steps and holds out his hand to help her up; she takes it without hesitation and the world contracts, tumbles in on her until the only thing left is his hand holding hers, his skin touching her skin. He seems not to notice that everything is condensed.

“I have one condition to this guided tour” she says after a moment, and his eyes flicker over her face. “You must call me Rosalind,” she says, “Miss Howard sounds so stuffy.”

His lips curve up slightly. “In that case,” he smiles, “you must no longer address me as Captain. My name is -.”

“Christopher,” she breathes and the rightness of it is like a blow to her chest.

She tightens her hold on his hand. “Christopher.”

Her mind races; memories of the garden, games played with her brothers and stolen moments of solitude fill her thoughts.

“This way,” she instructs him.

She leads him through the long grass, the patchwork of colours under their feet as confused as her thoughts, and through the gap in the hedge emerging in the South garden. The table where tea was served stands abandoned. Rosalind feels the need to explain.

“Mother has not been well,” she begins and he interrupts.

“Charles told me,” he murmurs, “I am sorry.”

They exchange a glance as they pass the silver birch and he pats a pocket.

“I still have your painting.”

“I asked you to return it,” she says, “but there is no time today. So you will have to visit again.”

He grins but remains silent. She leads him to the West Garden. Here the flower beds are formal, symmetrical, arranged around a fountain where sea creatures spew foam into the basin.

“When I was young,” she says, “I once tried to swim in here.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “When you were young?” he repeats and she wishes she had thought more about her dress this morning; chosen something other than the blue and white stripe that makes her look twelve.

“Did you succeed?” he asks.

She steps up onto the stone rim of the basin; their hands are still joined.

“No,” she tells him, “and I badly grazed my knees trying.”

She lets go of his hand and dances along the narrow ledge, arms flung wide and hair swinging in the sunlight. He tenses as he watches and the heat of the morning is suddenly too much for her. She sways, her body no longer the feather it was. Suddenly his hands are on her waist, warm and firm, and she steps down onto the gravel. She looks up at him and he releases her as if she has burned him and turns away. Her voice is too loud.

“The Glasshouse,” she says. “There may be grapes.”

She runs across the gravel, through the archway and into the yew corridor. He follows, moving quietly despite his heavy boots. The narrow high-sided corridor stretches away from them. Her feet are unable to slow and she lifts her skirt and dashes between the cool dark walls, past the turning to the Glasshouse and on, their footsteps and his breathing behind her the only sounds.

They burst into the sunlight at the end and he gasps for here is the large pond, hidden from view until the last second. The water is still, other than where pond skaters skitter across it; water lily pads, forced upright by lack of space, raise their glossy faces to the sky. The brown spikes of bulrushes pierce the mass of green matted foliage and yellow St John’s Wort flowers reflect the sun. She waits for his reaction.

“Beautiful,” he says, looking at her.

He looks at his watch and then around the garden. “The Glasshouse will have to wait,” he mutters, “the train will not.”

Rosalind’s bubble bursts and the day becomes ordinary.

“After, Christopher, I shall show it you then,” she says and hears his intake of breath and the ragged exhale.

“No,” he says. His hand sweeps around the space. “This house, your family, I have no place here. Your father is a Lord, mine a policeman. Your brother is very kind, and you, Rosalind, are,” he stops. “But, no.”

A cloud covers the sun. The sparkle of the water disappears and the yellow reflection dulls. 

“But you will visit again, won’t you?” she whispers. “You must, if only to return the watercolour.”

He scrutinises her face.

“Perhaps,” he says slowly.

The cloud passes and ripples from a rising fish break the mirror of the pond.


	5. Casualties

January frost decorates the window panes when Rosalind awakes. She wraps herself in her dressing gown and rubs a small circle in the ferny patterns. It is just getting light and she sees a set of footprints leading across the white lawn. She and Charles breakfast together, the bandage on his knee making his movements ungainly. She waits until his plate is clear before she asks.

“Have you heard anything of Captain Foyle?” She makes her voice as nonchalant as she can, but Charles puts down his coffee cup before he answers.

“Not since October,” he says softly and she closes her mind to the implications.

“Who was out so early this morning?” she asks instead and tells him of the footprints which lead from the French windows in the morning room. 

Charles frowns.“What do you mean, Rosy?” he says. “Father was in his study when I came down and Mother is still in bed.”

Rosalind brightens. “A mystery,” she whispers. “A New Year Hunt. Do you think Father has arranged it?”

“Get your coat, then,” Charles says. “My leg needs the exercise.” 

They set off across the lawn. The footprints cross the lawn and wind around the oak tree. They follow the hedge to the Glasshouse and backtrack to the gap. The marks are no longer visible as they emerge onto the gravel paths around the now mostly empty decorative beds. 

“The Yew Run?” Charles suggests and they pass the sluggish fountain where Christopher’s strong hands saved her from a dunking and on to the archway. Footprints lead from it into the dark corridor. They follow, the footprints indistinct, the high hedge offering some protection from the frost. 

The brown bulrush spikes rise from pale brown straw-like foliage. There are no water lily leaves sprouting, no yellow cups of flowers. The pond is empty except for Mother’s body floating face-down in the still water, her dark hair like weed, her green wrap an air-bloated fish. The imperceptible current has pulled it towards the far edge.

“Christ!” says Charles as he runs awkwardly around the edge shedding his overcoat as he goes. 

Rosalind stands stock-still and watches. She sees where the footprints have gone into the water and knows how slowly the current moves. Mother has been dead for hours and no effort of Charles’ will bring her back. But he wades in and grasps the soggy bundle, hauling it back to the muddy edge, unable to find purchase to remove it completely.

 

The doctor suggests that Rosalind goes to bed, but she tells him she has work to do. Charles is already tucked up by the fireside, still trembling from grief, effort or cold; which, she cannot tell. Father pays the doctor, then goes to speak to the staff, gathered around the large table in Cook’s kitchen. Charles turns his face to her.

“You didn’t scream Rosy,” he says, a sad smile on his lips. “Good girl.”

Rosalind draws herself up to her fifteen years’ height and answers. “I am no longer a child, Charles. That game is done.”

Charles’ eyes glow at her as warm as the crackling fire.

 

There is only Father and herself now and he is away more than he is at home. Miss Eld has been dismissed, as Rosalind reports to Father that she has no time for study with the governess. It is not an untruth; Rosalind spends more and more time in the library, arranging her household accounts at the desk there. She scours the shelves for books that will tell her how babies decide when to come and why she feels so strange when she thinks of Captain Christopher Foyle. She reads every word of the newspapers with increasing trepidation, relieved when his name does not appear amongst the ever-increasing lists of dead and missing. She finds books with beautiful illustrations and spends most of the wet spring days recreating the vibrant colours with her watercolours. Occasionally she lets the muddy brown water from the brush cleaning jar flow across the paper and adds tiny figures as if seen through mist or smoke. She thinks about the soldiers who wear her rifle gloves and wonders if any of the dozens of pairs she has made have found him.

War reports come thick and fast as spring warms to summer. June is hot and photographs in the newspaper show roads thick with dust raised by marching soldiers.

“At least they will have dry feet,” she says to Father. The descriptions of foot-rot have played on her mind and her output of thick socks increased dramatically over the winter.

“No, we need the rain,” says Father. “The mud and water-filled craters make it more difficult for the Germans to supply their lines.”

Rosalind is silenced. She finds an atlas and pores over the rivers and streams that hinder the enemy and prays for rain. By the time the summer is fading the British have crossed the Hindenberg Line and the newspapers begin to use the words ‘close’ and ‘end’. Rosalind hopes that ‘after’ will be one she can also use. Little space is dedicated to the disease that seems to be travelling southward leaving healthy people dead in days.

 

Rosalind celebrates her sixteenth birthday alone. Father is in London - the war is almost certainly drawing to a close and his job is made more difficult by the fact that so many colleagues have succumbed to what is now being called the ‘Spanish Flu’. So she reads the message he has left her and wanders the house. In the long-abandoned Night Nursery she finds the candles and cross she used to confound her brothers and she spares a thought for William. She is in the library when she hears the sound of the heavy front door bell. Visitors are few and far between so she smooths down her dress and goes into the hall. Ford, too old really to be a butler but tolerated as much as he is loved, is talking to the postboy. Rosalind puts a hand on the smooth wooden bannister. This is not the time for the post; that arrived hours ago. She studies the envelope in Ford’s hand; it is not yellow but white – she breathes again.

“Special delivery, Miss Rosalind,” Ford says as he holds out the letter to her.

“Leave it on the tray,” Rosalind says, “Father will be home later.”

Ford smiles. “Special delivery for you,” he tells her and she looks at the unfamiliar writing, the French stamp, the unknown postmark.

The warmth from the library fire does not spread as far as her desk and Rosalind shivers as she slits open the envelope and draws out a single piece of card. The embroidered floral design reminds her of the Morris wallpaper in the drawing room and the words ‘Birthday Greetings’ entwine their way through the foliage. A tiny French flag hangs from one stem, a matching Union Jack in the opposite corner. She turns the card over.

‘Dear Rosalind, Happy Birthday,’ she reads. ‘I hope this finds you safe and well. Fondest regards, C.’

A familiar coil of birch bark is drawn in the corner. Rosalind raises the card to her face and inhales its subtle smell; she traces the stem-stitched vine, the feather-stitched leaves. The French-knot flowers stand proud under her fingers. She reads the greeting aloud; she whispers it to herself; she draws it into her heart and clasps it tight. He is alive. He is alive and well. He is alive and thinking of her. She strides into the hallway and pulls on the first coat from the rack. It is one of Father’s and flaps around her ankles. She pushes the card deep into the pocket and opens the front door. It is cold, but the sky is pale blue and cloudless.

 

Rosalind closes the door and breathes in the crisp autumn air. Then she leaps down the wide shallow steps to the driveway and turns right across the neatly mown grass; she opens the small gate into the East Garden and darts through it slamming it behind her. She races over the meadow that, in summer, is a riot of colour and makes a circuit of the summer house. She slaloms through the poplar trees and swoops through the gap in the hedge into the South garden. She swings around the oak tree and comes to rest at the silver birch. Her fingers pick at the peeling bark as she rests her forehead against it, eyes closed, amazing herself at her forwardness and grateful for the impulse that drove her to it. That moment savoured, she is off again, dashing to the far hedge and through it to scatter the gravel with her rapid steps. The fountain looms and, without stopping, she leaps onto the rim and dances around it, confident in her balance and poise. She flies down the yew corridor and reaches the pond. She stops. She has not visited this place since last winter, but Richards and his new gardener’s lad must have been here; the pond is tidy, the rotting lily leaves removed, no trace of their oily residue staining the surface. She looks into the water and sees not Mother but his eyes on her as he said ‘Beautiful’. Her fingers close on the card and she pulls it from the depths of the warm pocket. ‘Fondest regards’ – I am fond of you, I like you, you mean something to me, I hold you in my thoughts, I hold you in regard, in esteem.

“I love you, Captain Foyle,” she shouts, startling the rooks in the trees beyond the pond. “I love you,” she whispers to the small neat writing. “Come back to me, please.”

Her heart continues to hammer as she walks slowly back to the summer garden and in through the French doors.


	6. Return

The war has ended. Father has aged ten years, Charles has returned and is deciding whether to re-enlist, Christmas has been celebrated and still there is no word. The birthday card is rubbed thin on one edge, the writing smudged; the birch coil from the dressing table has joined it in her ‘Treasure Box’. Since her birthday Rosalind has not run anywhere and Father is talking of her ‘coming out’ and debating which elderly aunt may present her. Rosalind cringes at the very idea and pleads with Charles for help.

“Why are you so set against it?” Charles asks. “You will make a perfect debutante.”

“Did you not say yourself that social distinctions would be blurred after the war, Charles?” she says. “Is this not an example of the way we continue to flaunt our status?”

Charles studies her face. “We are who we are, Rosy,” he says and her face darkens.

“I am not who I would like to be,” she retorts. “Do you really want all this, Charles? No, you want the camaraderie of your ship and the excitement you dreamed of when we were children! Well, I don’t want this either!”

“I am sorry Christopher has not written again, Rosalind,” Charles says, his shoulders stiff. “But it’s for the best. Father would never allow it even if he asked.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she tells him over her shoulder as she leaves the room.

 

Aunt Agatha has been invited to stay for a week and Rosalind confers with Cook about the diet required for an elderly woman with few teeth and a delicate digestion. They laugh but Rosalind dreads the arrival of the woman who is being suggested as her applicant for Court. It is with bad grace that she sits in the library awaiting the car that will bring Aunt Agatha through the gloomy January afternoon from the railway station. When the bell rings she is surprised at the speed at which Charles must have driven. She considers pleading a headache and retiring to her room but is prevented by Ford opening the library door.

“A gentleman to see you, Miss Rosalind,” he says and before she can reply he has ushered her visitor in. Captain Foyle stands, his cap in his hands and his blue eyes riveted on her. She jumps to her feet.

“Captain, um, Christopher,” she falters and is silenced as he crosses the room and pulls up just short of her.

“Rosalind,” he says. His voice is rough and hesitant and he appears unsure of what to say next.

She solves his problem, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, pulling him to her and offering her lips to receive a kiss. He responds enthusiastically, his hands on her back, his warm, firm lips on her cheeks, her neck, her ears, her mouth. She gasps with delight as he breathes in her hair, whispers her name again and again.

“I wasn’t sure,” he begins. “You were so young. I wondered -.”

“I may have been young,” she laughs,” but I know what I want when I see it.”

She is emboldened by his smile and she reaches up and entwines her fingers in his curls, longer now, and soft, silky. He kisses her once more, firmer, insistent.

“I love you,” he says. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I first saw you, but my head told me it was impossible.”

She laughs again, buoyed by the memory of the scattering rooks by the pond. “And I love you,” she says, “I thought you the most delectable thing I had ever seen.”

His mouth turns down in the strange smile she saw in the summerhouse and she covers his face with kisses. He remains motionless as she steps back and revels in his declaration. A car horn sounds outside.

“Oh, Lord,” she says, “Aunt Agatha! Quick!”

Rosalind takes his hand and pulls him through the hallway and into the dining room. She unbolts the French doors and drags him into the garden, closing them carefully behind her. They run across the lawn to their left and into the East Garden.

“The summerhouse,” he says and she smiles.

“Yes.”

They sit on the floor, backs to the wall, knees raised so that in order to be discovered their seeker must enter the door completely. Rosalind stifles a giggle as they hear Father calling and footfalls that must be Charles’ on the terrace. At last silence prevails, so quiet that she wonders if he can hear her heart thudding, her soul singing. She shivers, and without a word he takes off his greatcoat and drapes it around her shoulders.

“Did you receive my card?” he asks.

“Fondest regards,” she replies and he smiles.

“Good.”

He stretches his legs in front of him and leans back. “Came as soon as I could,” he says. “Getting everyone home was a nightmare.”

“I would have waited forever,” she says, suddenly shy.

“Although,” he hesitates, “don’t know what your father will think of me after this.” He indicates the two of them, alone, close together in the space.

“I don’t care,” Rosalind leans towards him. “He can’t stop me loving you.”

“Then I’ll speak to him this evening,” he says and stretches his arm around her shoulders, but she has other ideas. She kneels up, turns and sits down again on his lap.

“Rosalind, no!” He sounds horrified, so she silences him with a kiss. It lasts a long time and when she pulls away she see something unknown in his expression.

“You haven’t asked me yet,” she says. “It’s my answer that matters, not his.”

His face is serious but his eyes are soft. “Will you marry me, Rosalind Howard?” he asks.

Rosalind wriggles excitedly. “Yes, Captain Foyle,” she says, “No matter what Father says.”

She frowns. “What will we do if he refuses?”

His breath comes fast and heavy as if he has been running. “Don’t do that,” he says.

“What?” Rosalind sighs. “Can’t I ask a question?”

His eyes study her face. “You know what I mean,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “We’ll do this correctly. We’ll persuade him – and if he won’t be persuaded we’ll have to wait.” Rosalind fidgets worriedly.

“Oh, Christopher,” she says, “Aunt Agatha! You may have to wait until tomorrow. You can stay – yes?”

She kisses him again and he pulls away and loosens his tie.

“Rosalind! Don’t!” he says. “Get off, please.”

He makes to stand, tipping her sideways. She sits on the floor and looks at the patterns of dust their feet have made. She wants to touch him, to feel part of him and he pushes her away. Does he not feel the same?

“Don’t you like me kissing you?” she asks, her voice small.

“Oh God, yes!” He sounds worried and she does not know why.

Suddenly he does stand, peers out of the window, adjusts his uniform and sits beside her again, knees raised.

“Rosalind,” he says as if to a child and she turns to tell him he is mistaken. “You do want to marry me?”

“Oh, yes,” she responds, approaching him again. His hands form a barrier to her movement.

“And you do, um, you do know what marriage entails?” he asks.

“Of course,” she smiles, but inside she is six years old, denying the existence of ghosts while watching for them from the corner of her eye.

“And children?” he persists. “Babies, you know where they come from.”

“Christopher,” she sighs, “we played on the farm when we were children. Of course I know!”

He regards her steadily, tiny muscle movements revealing his concentration. He appears to make an internal adjustment and smiles, a slow sensuous smile that melts her to the core.

"Good,” he says and pulls her against his chest. “Then stop teasing me, please.”

She nods but has no idea what she has said that could be interpreted as teasing.

 

 

Captain Foyle waits in the summerhouse while she returns indoors via the kitchen. Cook and Ford are drinking tea as she slips through the door, her cheeks as flushed as in summer.

“Miss Rosalind,” Ford says in what, as children, they called his ‘acting voice’. “I am so sorry. I was under the impression you had been called away to help with a problem in one of the estate cottages.” He winks theatrically and she grins.

“Your aunt is here,” he continues straight-faced. “She has gone to rest from her arduous journey. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were more visitors today – you know, someone who hasn’t been here since last year.”

Rosalind hugs his thin shoulders as she passes his chair and compares them with Christopher’s broader ones.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

 

Father and Charles are in the drawing room, deep in conversation. She bustles in and looks around.

“No Aunt Agatha?” she asks. “I’m sorry I had to leave so abruptly. Jim Harper had a letter from his son.”

Father nods knowingly. “Is he on his way home?” he asks and Rosalind flounders for an answer.

“He hopes so but there are, um, difficulties,” she says. Behind her back her fingers are crossed.

“And Aunt Agatha is exhausted from her ride in the mechanical monster,” laughs Charles.

“We will dress for dinner tonight,” Father tells her, “in honour of Agatha.”

“Then I shall go and change,” she says, “and look in on her.”

 

There will be suitable food at table Rosalind assures Aunt Agatha, and goes to her own room. Every dress is wrong – too young, too severe, too plain. Eventually she investigates the clothing Mother assembled for her before her death, from a London fashion house. The Vermont collection had proved popular in the capital but when Mother had displayed the items Father had considered them far too risqué for a fifteen year old and forbidden the wearing of them. But she is sixteen now, a woman in love, a woman with a man who wants to marry her. She settles on a gown of ivory, the pleated fabric draping from a peach coloured high-waisted ribbon. She rings for Ethel and together they get her into the gown. Her shoulders are exposed more than she is used to but the fabric skims her body in a way that both conceals and emphasises her shape.

“Oh, Miss Rosalind,” Ethel enthuses, “it’s marvellous.”

Rosalind looks in the mirror and agrees. Everything is marvellous – Christopher must have been invited to dinner, she will show him how she has grown and Father will see how handsome and dashing and clever he is and will allow them to marry.


	7. After

Aunt Agatha leans on Rosalind heavily as they descend the stairs. The doorway of the drawing room is open and she hears Christopher’s soft voice murmuring and then Charles’ loud laughter. They reach the doorway. Father’s eye takes in her new dress but he remains silent, Charles whistles cheekily and Captain Foyle stares. Rosalind feels like an exotic Egyptian queen.

“Scrubs up well, this tom-boy of yours, William,” Aunt Agatha says and the spell is broken – Father and Charles laugh, but Captain Foyle blushes and turns away appearing to find something more fascinating in the flickering flames.

Rosalind approaches him, hand outstretched.

“Captain Foyle,” she begins her rehearsed speech. “How delightful to see you again after...” 

Her throat tightens on the word and the ‘so long’ is lost. She is in the hot garden with Mother trying so hard to be the good hostess, but already losing touch with reality; with Charles, thin-faced and frowning whilst masquerading as his usual cheerful self; and a young officer with a haunted expression who is not afraid to claim a gardener grandfather and speaks of the war as it truly is – a man who doubts the existence of any ‘after’. Her face crumples, tears roll down her cheeks and she cannot find her voice. 

Father looks away and Charles frowns. Aunt Agatha appears not to notice anything amiss. Captain Foyle steps towards her and opens his arms – she retreats into their safe embrace. 

“After can be as difficult as the thing itself,” he says in the shocked silence that follows her action. “But at least we have an after.”

A dam bursts inside her and she begins to sob. She cries for Mother and William, for the ones who never returned, for the ones who have returned less than they were. Captain Foyle is unembarrassed and strokes her hair, mumbles soothing nothings over her head. She sobs for the pain and misery that he and Charles have endured, for the happiness she feels which she doesn’t deserve.

“William, a woman could starve in this house,” Aunt Agatha says loudly. “Let us go in to dinner.”

Father takes her arm and they disappear through the door; Charles hovers reluctantly.

“Come along, Charles,” her voice calls from the hallway and, with a worried glance, Charles departs.

Rosalind continues to sniffle until Captain Foyle digs in a pocket and offers her a handkerchief. She blows her nose loudly and his face both frowns and smiles.  
“Better?” he asks and she nods. “Then go and wash your face and we’ll go in to dinner.”

Rosalind’s hands fly to her face. “Oh,” she says, “and Ethel worked so hard.”

Captain Foyle strokes her cheek. “Wash it off,” he says gently. “You don’t need it – you are beautiful without it.”

“But,” she begins and he smiles.

“Perhaps when you are Aunt Agatha’s age you may feel the need. But not now; trust me.”

 

No one mentions the incident when they enter the dining room. Rosalind is herself again; she has washed her face and arranged a flimsy stole over her shoulders. Captain Foyle awaits her in the hallway and offers his arm. Ford, pressed into service at table, glances at her, his eyebrows raised and she nods at him. The soup, finished by the others, waits on the sideboard and is served. It is cold but she does not care – she has an internal fire which burns brightly. Lukewarm fish is eaten quickly so that they finish only minutes after the others and the chicken is served to everyone together. Aunt Agatha regales them with stories of her youth and Captain Foyle laughs out loud. No-one has dared to laugh at Aunt Agatha before but the old woman becomes more animated and continues through the remainder of the meal until even Father’s face twitches. Rosalind does not understand some of the laughter but joins in anyway.  
When a suitable time has passed after the coffee Rosalind rises and suggests that Aunt Agatha join her in the drawing room, but the old woman expresses her desire to retire and commandeers Charles to escort her. Rosalind leans on the chair-back, unsure of correct form.

“Stay,” says Captain Foyle softly.

“Yes, my dear,” Father’s face relaxes. “No need to stand on ceremony.”

So she stays, Charles returns and they debate the veracity of Aunt Agatha’s fanciful tales. 

 

When Rosalind wakes, she wonders when Captain Foyle may speak with Father and hopes it will be before Aunt Agatha begins the preparations for her presentation at Court. When she goes in for breakfast Captain Foyle is eating alone.

“Thank you,” she says as she passes his chair. 

He shrugs. “More than welcome,” he says. “Charles has told me the circumstances of your Mother’s death. I am so sorry.”

She spoons scrambled eggs onto her plate. “She was not happy. William’s death was the last straw.”

He looks at her across the table. “Charles was impressed with your behaviour,” he tells her and a smile escapes her.

“You mean, he was surprised I didn’t scream,” she says.

Their eyes lock and the food goes uneaten.

 

A sudden commotion on the stairway breaks the tension of their mutual gaze. Aunt Agatha’s voice is giving orders and something heavy thuds on the treads. 

They listen for a moment until Rosalind says, “Excuse me,” and goes to satisfy her curiosity.

The car is at the open front door, Charles at the wheel and Aunt Agatha’s trunk strapped on the back. The woman herself is taking her leave of Father. Rosalind is unobserved as she watches from the shadow of the stairwell.

“Tell her I shall write to her, William,” she hears Aunt Agatha say. “And for Heaven’s sake, make sure they marry as soon as possible.”

Father’s back stiffens and he mutters something Rosalind cannot hear.

“Nonsense,” comes the reply. “A gentleman is born, not bred. He is entirely suitable; he understands her.”

Father’s reply is again inaudible.

“That dress, William! She is sixteen trying to be twenty-six. You forget how young she is because she is so capable but she is growing up fast and that young man is the best thing for her, believe me.”

Rosalind’s stomach turns somersaults. Of whom do they speak? Has Aunt Agatha abandoned plans of the London season in favour of some suitable bachelor? Or is it Captain Foyle to whom she refers? She is desperate to know. Buried in the garden, long forgotten by Charles, no doubt, is their escape kit, hidden there long ago when Rosalind thought Charles the most important person in her life. It holds clothing that will be rotted by now, but also a train timetable and money hoarded from their allowances secure in a tin box. She has a sudden longing to take the small suitcase and Captain Foyle and disappear; only the thought of Charles’ distress restrains her. She slips back into the dining room before she is seen and shakes her head silently at his query.

 

The house is strangely quiet when Rosalind leaves Captain Foyle in the library and goes in search of Father to discuss her fate. His voice leads her to the study where the door stands ajar.

“You have contacts, Father,” Charles says. “Ask if he was mentioned in dispatches. He doesn’t speak of it but from the little I’ve picked up he was highly regarded.”

“I shall,” Father replies. “but Agatha was so convinced that this was the course to take.”

“Her opinion must stand for something,” Charles’ voice is warm, “from what we now know of her experiences.”

Rosalind leaves them laughing and returns to Captain Foyle. 

“Did you find him?” he asks and she tells him that he is speaking to Charles.

Captain Foyle puts his newspaper aside and straightens his jacket. “In the study?” he confirms.

She nods and sees the same steely determination in his eyes as when he told Mother about his family. She watches him stride purposefully from the room and there is a tingling in her chest.

 

Rosalind reads the page several times with no appreciation of its contents; the words, each one comprehensible in its own right, mean nothing when put together. With a sigh she closes the book and waits. Captain Foyle’s face is equally unreadable when he returns. She jumps from the chair, her heart hammering uncomfortably.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggests and fetches his greatcoat from the hallway. She trails after him and shrugs on her own woollen coat, thrusting her hands in the pockets. They go into the misty winter’s day and amble down the driveway. Father has told him of Aunt Agatha’s more suitable candidate for her hand which accounts for his present indifference. He has accepted the refusal and has brought her into the chilly garden to freeze her own heart, to make it as empty as the branches which stand stark against the leaden clouds. He turns toward the pond and she follows, skirting the grey water and through the yew hedges that are as high as the barriers she must build around her grief. The low box borders of the formal gardens stand guard around the few plants that remain; uncut dry stems, frost-blackened, pierce the lowering sky. He stops at the fountain and studies the dolphins and mermaids. There is a book in the library that shows mermaids as sirens with sharp pointed teeth, their bite much deadlier than their song. She stands by his side, the smiling dolphins mocking her. 

“You must be sure” he says so suddenly that she flinches.

“Sure of what?” she asks. “What did he say?”

“He made it clear that I was an outsider, that I had few prospects. He emphasised the fact that you are accustomed to more than I can provide.” His voice is flat; he reports without emotion.

“So what must I be sure of?” she repeats and the faintest ray of winter sun emerges from a broken cloud.

He turns toward her and puts his hands on her shoulders. “That it is me that you want.” In the corner of her eye a small grey moth flutters from the hedge.

“I am sure,” she says and her voice sound shrill to her own ears. “I am absolutely sure!”

“Then you must choose the date,” he says and his face splits, his lips pressed together in a wide smile that makes her heart lurch in her chest.

She cannot move. She has misheard. It cannot be true.

“Father has agreed?” she asks and he nods.

“You asked Father for my hand in marriage and he said yes?” she confirms. He nods again and she imagines the smile holding in his words.

“Speak to me!” she shouts, her hands batting ineffectually at his greatcoat. “Tell me!”

He catches her hands in his own and holds them firmly at their sides as he leans towards her and kisses her. He lets go and puts his arms around her as she coils her own around his neck and pulls him closer. She is breathless when his lips part from hers but she refuses to let him go. She burrows her hands under his open coat and around his back, presses herself against him and buries her face in his shoulder so that when he does speak she hears the rumble in his chest.

“He said that if you are sure he will not stand in our way. You may choose the date.” 

He lifts her chin so that he can see her face. His pale eyes are dark, the pupils wide, the skin crinkled at the corners. 

“My love,” he says and her heart soars with the moth into the single ray of sunlight that illuminates the gushing water. 

They walk through the damp grass to the birch tree and the peeling bark.

“My sketch,” she says, “did you…?” 

He pulls it from inside his jacket. It is torn and covered with rust-coloured stains, but he opens it to reveal the bark that glowed in the summer light. She runs her finger over the final marks.

“I drew your curls,” she says. “You are part of my sketch, my symbol of love.”

Something passes over his face and he pushes her against the tree and kisses her urgently, as if she is his last hope. The tree presses into her back, the island of solid lichen grinding into her shoulder. She wriggles to remove the discomfort. He groans and whispers her name. Then his lips are hard on hers again, his hands move on her body and her stomach feels as if it drops inside her. His mouth tastes of coffee and has the warmth of the Indian Brandee that Mother used for her stomach upsets. His body is against hers now, from shoulders to knees they are melded as one. Her pulse races and her mind buzzes with excitement until it overloads and she ceases to think and surrenders to the sensations. 

It ends as abruptly as it began. He gasps and releases his hold on her and steps back, turning away from her. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice sounding as if he has a severe cold. “That was inexcusable of me.”

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “I enjoyed it.”

He turns back to her, his coat wrapped around him and smiles his strange regretful smile.

“So did I,” he says softly, “a little too much.”

Rosalind frowns. Is kissing like ice-cream, enjoyable but likely to make one unwell if overdone?

She sees him observing her closely and she blushes. He comes closer and she hopes he will kiss her again, make her head whirl with strange thoughts, but he strokes her face with one crooked finger.

“Set an early date, my love,” he says, “I don’t know if I can wait too long.”

Again she has the sense of missing a piece of the jigsaw. 

 

They take lunch with Charles, Father having gone into town on some errand. He clasps Captain Foyle's hand and thumps him on the back, kisses Rosalind on the cheek, and asks about the date.

“As soon as possible,” she says, “Christopher can’t wait too long.”

There is an awkward silence, a pause before both men speak at the same time and she revisits the answer in her head as they eat. What has she said that is wrong? She wants to be married as soon as possible too; she wants to be with him all the time and not have to say goodbye as they will this afternoon.

“Rosalind,” Christopher says when the meal is over. “Come to the library.”

She sits by the fire and waits while he scans the room and chooses a book. He puts it on the desk and paces the few steps between it and her for several moments. He sits opposite her, stands and sits again.

“What did your Mother tell you about marriage?” he asks eventually.

She lifts her head in surprise. “Nothing,” she answers.

“So when you told me you understood what marriage entailed, who taught you that?” His head is down.

“No-one taught me.” She fights the urge to laugh sensing that this is something more than she may appreciate. “I have eyes and ears,” she says. “I’ve run this house for years now, unofficially.”

“I’m not speaking of the public side of marriage,” he says slowly, “but of the, um, personal side. The marriage bed.” He flushes in the heat from the fire.  
Rosalind’s brow wrinkles. He glances at her and speaks again.

“You know that men and women are, um, made differently, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she says, wondering what relevance this has to sleeping.

“Oh, God, Rosalind.” He rubs his forehead. “It shouldn’t be me telling you this. Do you have any married friends or family you can talk to? Women,” he adds hastily.

“Not really,” she racks her brain to think who may have some knowledge of men and beds. “Aunt Agatha was married once, long before I was born.”

His eyes light up. “Does she have any children?” he asks and his lips twitch.

“Cousins Hilda and Reggie,” she says, “but they’re a lot older than me and have grandchildren of their own.”

He sighs. “Talk to Aunt Agatha, my love,” he says. “She may be as old as Methuselah but she knows what’s what. Tell her you need to know about, um, intimacy. She’ll understand.” He takes the book from the desk and hands it to her. 

“In the meantime,” he says, “this may help a little.”


	8. Discovery

Rosalind sits in bed with the book that Christopher has given her. He has gone home and promises to write as does she, and now she has an emptiness inside that is an insatiable hunger. The book is a medical text that features detailed illustrations obscured by a myriad of tiny arrows with Latin words and phrases attached. She skips the brain and the skeleton and searches for something that will tell her why her stomach feels detached when he kisses her, why she feels the strange sensations that she does. 

 

Informed of her impending marriage, Aunt Agatha sends Rosalind a book which is far more informative, although it takes her a while to work out what the member is having only heard it in connection with Parliament and clubs. Her face flames as she reads the strangely worded text and her body burns as she studies the illustrations. At first she cannot believe that such things are true but Aunt Agatha assures her that it is so, even though most Europeans, she says, remain somewhat ‘conservative’. What impresses her most is the smiles on the faces of the exotic women and she wonders why such things are not spoken about now that the world is in the twentieth century. She now understands Christopher’s words and actions by the birch tree, and she is eager and curious to know more. That night after Ethel has gone, she gets out of bed and removes her nightdress. She stands naked in front of the mirror and studies her body then slips between the cool sheets and tries to imagine her future husband in a similar state.

 

Rosalind shifts her weight from one foot to another as she stands by the window.

“It doesn’t help,” says Father, “that you have been watching since before the train was due to arrive.” 

She strains to see through the gathering darkness. Christopher is Constable Foyle now, of the Hastings Constabulary and his visit must coincide with his work. Hence, he is arriving late on this February afternoon and she hopes they will have time to talk alone before dinner

“If Charles were here he could have picked him up from the station,” she complains. “Why do you not employ a driver?”

Father makes a humffing sound and returns to his drink. A figure appears in the distance, no longer uniformed but unmistakably her future husband. He strides down the drive and she flings open the door, ignoring Ford who waits in the hallway anticipating the need for his services. Rosalind pays no attention to the cold drizzle and runs towards the figure who is smiling at her and quickening his own pace. They pull up short of contact, aware that Father may be watching from the drawing room.

“Hello,” she says, “I’m so glad you’re here at last.” She hesitates, the pictures in her mind making her suddenly shy.

“Rosalind,” he says, and there is so much in those three syllables that she blinks back the tears.

She takes his hand and they walk to the door where Ford waits shivering. Father comes into the hallway to greet Christopher and shakes his hand warmly. 

“Dinner at eight,” he tells her as if she has not arranged it. “I shall go up now. Dressing is a long job without Ford.”

“Arthritis,” she explains at Christopher’s quizzical expression. “Ford can no longer manage the fastenings.” She blushes; suddenly everything is connected to Aunt Agatha’s disturbing book.

He removes his greatcoat, revealing a cheap plain suit. “Afraid I can’t run to evening dress as well,” he says. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says and pulls him into the drawing room, closing the door behind them. 

Once inside she reaches up and embraces him, her arms drawing his face close to hers. As he moves his mouth to kiss her she licks her lips and opens them slightly so that when he joins his still-cold mouth with hers she flicks her tongue against it. He pulls away and regards her, eyes narrowed, but she smiles and resumes a more conventional kiss. She has practised this so that she does not have to break away to breathe and it becomes clear that he knows the trick too. What begins as a tentative brushing of lips soon becomes a tender caress; a fevered clasping of bodies ensues as she winds her fingers in his hair and nibbles his ear. Her forward motion results in his being trapped against the back of Father’s wing chair as she leans against him, her hands now exploring under his single breasted jacket. Alert to its presence she now feels what she once took to be a mere rumple of clothing for what it is. She rubs against it, her own body as tense as a spring awaiting release and detects an answering jerk. 

“Oh, God, no” he gasps, “not here.”

Of course not here, not now – but in two weeks’ time when they are man and wife. 

She puts her mouth to his ear and whispers, “But soon, dearest.” and a shiver runs down her back.

His expression is one of astonishment laced with amusement. “Aunt Agatha?” he croaks.

She nods her head. “She lived in India as a young bride,” she says and watches his eyes open wide. 

“And now you leave me with a problem,” he mutters. “I’m in some difficulty here.”

“What would you have me do?” she whispers and his eyes close slowly.

“What I’d have you do is not what I’d like you to do,” he says and his eyes open again. “I’ll go to my room and ask you not to practice your aunt’s witching arts on me again until we are wed.”

“Charles had a magic set once,” she says watching his face, “and entertained us with magic tricks. I was about four and I loved it.” He frowns. “Then one day he showed me how he did a certain trick.” He cocks his head to one side. “I feel as I did then,” she concludes.

His brow furrows. “Disappointed?” he asks. 

“Dissatisfied,” she answers and pulls him to her once more, “wanting to know more. I want to know, my darling.”

A series of expressions pass over his face. “And you will, my dearest Rosalind, you will,” he says as he leaves the room.

 

After dinner, where father is friendlier than she has ever seen him, Rosalind retires and leaves them to their port. She reads a much-thumbed ‘Northanger Abbey’ from the library and awaits their company. Christopher is scowling as he enters alone.

“What is it?” she asks. “What has happened?”

“I thought it wise to concede a battle in favour of the overall victory,” he replies and when she lifts her arms in exasperation he explains. “Your Father’s insisted I wear full uniform for the wedding.”

“Is that all?” she asks. “I had assumed you would.” His eyes roll to the ceiling and she laughs.

 

Charles is awaiting his orders and is home. This weekend will be the final visit before the ceremony and Christopher will be accompanied by his parents so they will not be complete strangers to Father and Charles. She has made a short visit to his Hastings home; met his gruff good-humoured father and quiet kindly mother, both proud of their son and welcoming to the woman he loves. The room they will share, his room, is small but cosy and she knows she will be happy there. How could she be otherwise when he will be with her? She smiles as she remembers their visit to a small restaurant, the enthusiastic welcome from the owner and his son, Carlo, who is a friend of Christopher’s. 

 

Now Rosalind makes up his parents’ room with care, arranging the first of the snowdrops in a small vase. Downstairs the telephone rings and she hears Charles call to Ford that he will answer. She plumps the pillows and wonders if she should add another cover; the room faces north and can be cold. Charles is in the drawing room with the door open wide when she comes downstairs. 

“Rosalind!” he calls and she puts her head around the doorpost. “Come in, sit down.”

Something in his voice tickles her memory. “That was Christopher on the telephone,” he says and she pouts. 

“Why did you not call me?” she asks. He does not answer the question but says, “He will not be here on Saturday, as planned. You will see him on Sunday.”

There is no specific memory, just an icy dread that settles under her lungs and makes it difficult to breath. She waits.

“Rosy, there is bad news; his parents have died. Yesterday. The influenza. The funeral is on Saturday.” She digests the fragments he gives her and the icy lump spreads.

“Both of them?” she whispers, the cold reaching down to her core.

“Within hours of each other apparently,” he replies taking her hand.

“I must go to him. He is all alone,” Rosalind says pulling Charles towards the door. “You must take me.”

“No, Rosy. He anticipated your wish and says you are to stay here.”

“But the snowdrops,” she says and she starts to shake. “The wedding, will…?”

Charles squeezes her hand. “Speak to him on Sunday,” he says. “He insisted on coming. I shall pick him up from town.”

 

She skips church so that when the car pulls up by the front door she is waiting on the top step. Christopher looks exactly the same as he did last week except that his step is slower, his expression less animated. He climbs the steps and Charles passes by them with his bag. 

“I’ll put this in your room, old man,” he says as he goes upstairs leaving them in the doorway.

“Christopher,” she says, “We are all so sorry. Come in, it’s chilly out here.”

He doesn’t answer but follows her inside and hangs his coat in what has become its usual place. 

“The train was colder,” he says and he sits in front of the drawing room fire. 

Rosalind sees Charles sitting in the same chair shivering and herself intent on keeping busy, the doctor suggesting that she should go to bed.

“Would you like to rest?” she asks, “No-one would mind if you went to your room.” He shakes his head. “A cup of tea, something to eat?”

He stands suddenly, his face angry. “If anyone else offers me tea I shall…” The sentence that starts so aggressively quickly loses momentum. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Rosalind feels the moment when she saw Mother’s body – the jolt of irrevocability, the realisation of mortality. She knows what it is to be numb with what others suppose to be grief but is numbness itself – the absence of any emotion at all.

“Don’t apologise,” she says. “Feel the anger, feel the pain, the grief; feel it so that you can know it!” She holds his arms and shakes him. “Know it and leave it behind one day.”

He stares at her and she sees tears that cling to his lower lids and glisten there. He slumps in the chair and puts his head in his hands. Rosalind kneels in front of him and gently prises them away. She holds his hands in hers and hears him choke on his breath; the sound is soft in the quiet room. If she could she would take it all from him. She would stand on the frosty grass and watch Mother bob in the current all day if it would take away his pain. Aunt Agatha’s book is forgotten as she discovers the true meaning of the vows she has practised saying in the privacy of her room. She must cherish him, care for him, give him her soul as well as her body. She envelops him in her embrace and says nothing as he silently holds her tight for what seems like forever.

 

Lunch is taken in a subdued atmosphere, the rawness of everyone’s awareness of death coating the food. Rosalind says little but her thoughts are crowded. After lunch any semblance of chaperoning is abandoned as they sit alone in the library. 

“The wedding,” she says, “do you wish me to cancel everything?”

“What?” His head snaps up. “Cancel? Why?”

Rosalind gathers her lunchtime thoughts and assembles them in order. “I’m not sure it would be right,” she begins and he frowns. She stands; the words that were so clear in her head earlier now slip away under his clear blue gaze.

“You were correct when you said how young I was,” she forges on despite the growing dread of his response. “I am a precocious child who knows nothing, while you are …“ She searches for the words. “…a man of the world, experienced. What do I know of anything other than this house? I thought that knitting was doing my bit! And now, well, now you will need someone strong to support you, someone older, more...”

His face is a mask and she holds her breath awaiting his answer. He inhales and opens his mouth as if to speak but closes it again. Eventually he says, “Do you love me, Rosalind?”

“I do, I do,” she affirms, “but I want you to have -.” There is so much she wants for him – happiness, a good life, a fulfilling life; things that she has known but now elude her. How can she provide these things for him?

He is out of the chair and next to her in a second. His hands grip her shoulders and his face is so contorted she wonders if he will shake her.

“Only one thing I want,” he says slowly, “and that’s you. I’ve loved you since I first saw you in the garden, a vision in white with your hair in ribbons and a smile for Charles that made me stop in my tracks. When you kissed me that day I knew that you were no sophisticate; that you had a sprit that would rebel against your life here.” 

Rosalind blinks. She has never expressed her dissatisfaction with her life to him but he knows. Aunt Agatha’s voice says ‘He understands her’ and she knows that the old woman spoke of him.

“You’re strong and capable and talented. You’re clever and brave and.” He pauses for breath.

“And I don’t scream,” she says and his smile warms her.

“And I’m glad that you are innocent.” His smile softens. “I have some experience, it’s true, but it was fleeting, desperate, a need rather than the desire I feel for you. We can discover our love together. You know me better than I know myself – you know that I would shut my grief away and refuse it. You ask me about the war when others say ‘At least you are home now’ as if that makes the returning any easier.”

Rosalind’s heart pounds so hard she is sure it will burst from her chest. His arms are round her now, she leans her head against his chest as he strokes her hair.

“But there is one thing above all others, my dearest, that makes me know that you are the one,” he whispers and guides her to a chair, crouching in front of her. “Some time ago, I knew another young woman, beautiful, accomplished and living a life as privileged as this.” His gaze takes in the large comfortable room. “She loved me, I thought, as I believed that I loved her. But when I spoke to her father I was told I was not good enough, that she deserved better. I accepted it, as did she and we went our separate ways.”

Rosalind listens to his voice carefully. Why is he telling her this? Does he sound regretful?

“When I spoke to your Father he was not quite so blunt, but he intimated the same thing. I told him that I wouldn’t accept his decision – not until you told me to give up. I told him that you’d be mine whether he agreed or not - that the day you reached your age of majority I’d be waiting on the doorstep for you.”  
Rosalind is unable to breath; her chest is tight with an emotion she does not recognise. Her mouth smiles but her eyes fill with tears. Her head spins and her limbs will float away.

“I love you, my Rosalind,” he whispers. “Only way I got through yesterday was to think of the day we will stand in church and promise ourselves to each other. Don’t abandon me, my dearest, please.”

 

She stands at his side, in her simple white muslin dress and Mother’s tiara and veil and looks sideways at him as the vicar speaks. He is in full uniform and now she appreciates Father’s insistence – his medals glow in the light of the alter candles. The first three she has seen often on men in the town, Pip, Squeak and Wilfred, as they are known, but next to them from its crimson ribbon hangs the V.C. and from a blue and white ribbon a cross that she does not recognise. No-one would have known had Father not investigated his service record; Christopher would never have told her, never flaunted them willingly. He turns to her and his face has the downturned smile that she is getting to know so well. Her breath catches in her throat but now she knows the meaning of the breathlessness; it is pure joy.


	9. Epilogue 1932

Rosalind Foyle sits stiffly in the photographer’s studio, uncomfortable as the photographer arranges his lights. Christopher has been promoted to Detective Superintendent and has booked this appointment, specifically requested a photograph to stand in his new office. There are so many things she has to smile about. She has a husband who loves her now as much, if not more than he did the day they married; whose touch can still make her shiver as it did under the silver birch. She has a son who is handsome and bright and who will do well in whatever he chooses; a son who, when put to her breast, made her heart swell almost painfully with love. She has a home that is comfortable and suits them perfectly, a brother who still teases her about the witch and her non-existent scream. She has a fulfilled life – she paints and sketches and loves the sea and cliffs that surround the town. 

 

Rosalind thinks about the way she felt in church, standing beside her handsome young husband, full of joy and so sure that she knew what love was. She has since discovered so many more aspects of it as their marriage has gone through its ups and downs, its troubles and celebrations. She has done her best to care for him, to support him – a task which has become easier as the effects of the horrors have receded and his nightmares no longer disturb their nights. She has absorbed the pain of his memories; she has tried to make his work less arduous. The worry that she feels every morning when he leaves is hidden behind a smile that reassures him that all will be well until he returns safely. She sometimes imagines herself as calm and serene as Mother in the presence of bad news until she remembers Mother’s fate. So when she is alone she allows herself the grief and anguish so that she may recognise it and hide it from the man who knows her as well as she knows herself. 

 

Now she remembers the words of the doctor she has seen about the fever which comes and goes. Since Christmas it has receded slightly to be replaced by headaches and abdominal pain that has made it difficult to eat. She has lost weight and she knows that she looks drawn and tired. The doctor has taken blood for testing and spoken of a poor prognosis. Her imagination shows her Christopher, older now but still the same compassionate man that she fell in love with, his body tense with worry, his eyes bright with tears unshed until he knows for sure. She sees him standing at her graveside, Andrew at his side. She knows that Andrew will take the news of her fate with quiet distress – he is her son, he will not scream and wail despite his young age. Nevertheless the thought of them suffering, anticipating, is more than she can bear. So she hides her pain, pretends that she has eaten before they have their meal and hopes that when the inevitable happens it will be quick so that they do not suffer too long. She thinks of her two boys as she fondly calls them, and she smiles.

“Beautiful, Mrs Foyle,” the photographer says, but as the camera flashes so does her pain. Her hair, done especially in a marcel wave, sticks to the back of her neck as a wave of nausea washes over her. She presses her lips together and tries not to look away. 

END


End file.
